


love is a uniting and binding force

by illuminatiny (fleurdelilitu)



Category: Anne of Green Gables - L. M. Montgomery, Anne with an E (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1930s, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Frottage, Mild Smut, Nonverbal Communication, Tension, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Unresolved Tension, Yearning, gilbert is a horrific tease, it's just soft pure fluff, resolved tension, so much yearning, use your words you silly teens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-16
Updated: 2020-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:55:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23169661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fleurdelilitu/pseuds/illuminatiny
Summary: Gilbert makes a move, Anne finds herself at a loss for words, and summer blooms over Avonlea.
Relationships: Gilbert Blythe/Anne Shirley
Comments: 29
Kudos: 262





	love is a uniting and binding force

It’s her last day of being seventeen, and they’re sitting in the shade of the willow tree that looks out upon the lake. She’s making a flower crown and he’s leaning back beside her, reading Thomas Aquinas. “Isn’t springtime the most beautiful season?” she exclaims, gazing out upon the shining water.

The unbroken surface of the lake reflects the clusters of wildflowers that seem to shimmer in the sunlight, stretching out down from the edge of the glade where they’ve made their nest and all the way down to the water.

“There’s nothing in the world I like better than being present to the beauty of our mother nature and her glorious gifts.” She turns to him, laughing with delight, and startles. He’s looking at her intently, eyes darkly serious and with a small smile on his face that does strange things to her insides. 

A flush creeps across her face as she turns back to her flowers. He leans into her space, gently cupping her face and she is compelled to meet his gaze once more. Her world narrows down to the warmth of his palm on her skin and her heart gives a queer little thump.

”A fitting season for the queen of all things fae and bright to have been born, surely,” he says, voice low and husky. She can’t look away and she swallows futilely at a lump that seems to have formed in her throat.

“Though I find that whatever the season, Anne, these moments spent with you tend to bring home the beauty of our world.” The tone of his words is almost flippant but for his intent gaze, and she gasps quietly. A little thrill shivers down her spine and she feels herself pulled in by some unknowable force, as he slowly (oh, so slowly!) leans down to press his lips against hers. 

She’s shocked by the feeling. His lips are impossibly soft, the pressure firm but gentle. He presses his mouth against hers once, twice more, and then he moves away, sliding his fingers up to gently tug at a lock of her hair.

She hasn’t taken her eyes off him once. She can feel the flush across her face deepen further as she realises with dismay just how awkward a kiss it must have been, given her lack of response. But he just winks at her, leans back on his elbows and resumes his reading. Her entire body feels tightly wound up and her hands are trembling as she picks up her crown. 

Who _was that_ , speaking words of romance to her? _Who_ was that, gifting soft kisses that have set a fire alight in her flesh? She’s been stunned into silence.

Later, after he has walked her home and farewelled her at the gate (with naught but a gentle press at her hand! as if it hadn’t even happened!), she dizzily wanders the path to her homestead aware of nothing but her world shifting, moving, making itself whole in the green and amber dappled twilight that will forever now remind her of his hazel eyes.

* * *

It doesn’t happen again until summer is well underway.

She’s started an internal list cataloguing all of the different ways in which he looks at her with that warm, intent gaze. Every secret smile he sends in her direction. Every casual touch that lingers a moment too long. Still, he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t stray past the platonic line, doesn’t do anything to explain that golden moment, those three kisses that seem (for her) to haunt every minute they spend together.

The weeks turn to months, spring examinations passed and the stretch of summer feeling endless and warm, and she’s half convinced herself it was a waking dream or even a vivid imagining. Then it’s mid June, two weeks after graduation. She’s just heard that she’s won the scholarship to attend university in the fall, and all can she think is that she wants to see him.

She tears over to his house in the early daylight hours of the morning and, in the foyer to his home, he picks her up, spins her around, and presses his lips to hers.

The blood rushes to her head, she can feel her heartbeat going triple time and all she can think is that it is exactly as she remembers.

When he puts her down she’s red in the face and speechless again, but he just kisses the tip of her nose and tells her he’s so proud of her, of how she has worked so hard, of how she deserves this. Tells her that he’s excited to spend the next four years learning alongside her, and there’s something in that, something in those words that feels heavy, like a promise.

She steels herself to ask, but he’s already calling in Bash and Mary to give their congratulations, to share in her joy.

It isn’t until later, when there’s no one to see, that she presses her fingers to her lips and tries to relive that perfect, joyous, celebratory kiss. 

* * *

It keeps happening.

The very next day, he presses a kiss to her palm as they sit side by side on her balcony after dinner, whispering about their plans for the year ahead on the mainland.

The gesture is so intimate that her whole body shivers, and he puts an arm around her (as if what she needed was merely warmth and not the electricity brought by his touch).

Two days later, as they stand at the edge of the dock at the lake, he tangles his fingers with hers and puts his mouth to her temple before they jump. She can feel the curiosity in the gazes of their friends, and she blushes and swims to Diana, starting a conversation about something inane.

Later that very afternoon, though, when she is alone with him again in his orchard, and he is plucking the very best apples for her basket, he takes a moment to catch her hand, pull her to him, and press his lips to her forehead. With eyes wide and staring up at him, questions run through her mind: What _was_ this? Why was he doing this? Would he stop when summer ended?

It’s in this moment that she has to own the fact that yes, she can no longer think about anything but his lips while they’re together. She wants to know how he really tastes. She wants to know if he belongs to her. If it is she, and she alone, who he wants.

And she wants something more dangerous: the slide of skin on skin. To run her hands through his hair, under the line of his collar.

She worries that if she takes the initiative to pull him to her, she won’t ever be able to stop.

Still, the feeling burns. There seems to be nothing more she wants than to feel his lips on hers once more.

She opens her mouth to say something, anything, but he’s already turned away and is leading her up to the house where she knows they won’t have a moment alone.

She can’t take her eyes off their entwined hands, can’t stop thinking of it as they dine with his family, and ends up excusing herself to go home too early in the evening.

She feels miserable and confused as he walks her home in silence. When they reach her gate he gazes down at her solemnly, and she finds herself once again shaken when he presses his lips carefully at the corner of her mouth. “Goodnight Carrots,” he murmurs. “May your dreams be sweet.”

She almost wants to whine from the growing frustration, but instead she turns and walks into her house, pale faced and trembling. She refuses to meet the eyes of anyone inside, praying that noone had been watching at the window. 

* * *

The next morning he is at her door, asking her to picnic at one of their old, beloved haunts. Part way through the glade to the edge of the lake, she stops him as she realises they’re headed for that first, fateful willow tree. She moves close to him, meeting his gaze with naked longing, hoping against hope that _this time_ something will shift.

Her eyes flutter closed as he gently cradles her face in his hands. She feels his lips press against her forehead. Then each eyelid, in succession. Her cheekbones, the tip of her nose… and she stops him with a hand to his chest, looks up into his dark (so dark, she’s never seen them that dark) eyes and asks him, voice shaking, what he is doing.

“I’m making love to you, Anne-girl,” he says gently, in perfect seriousness, and tilts her chin up to taste her lips. She chokes back a sob and, for the first time, kisses back. Her mind reels and everything seems to fade away except for the feeling of her mouth against his, his hands on her face, her palms at his chest.

All of a sudden, just as she knew it wouldn't be, it’s not enough. She cannot let go of him, feels earnest and hot and shivery. Her lips part and she tastes his tongue, learns the shape of his mouth.

One of his arms snakes around her waist while the other cradles her skull, and he backs her against the nearest tree.

She pushes back as good as she gets, gripping his shoulders to her, feeling the shift of the strong muscles under the fabric of his shirt, tangling her fingers in his curls. 

He feels like iron and silk under her touch, all pressed up completely against her, and still she tries tug him closer, until his knee presses between her legs and he holds her tight to him as she rocks down upon his thigh. He shocks away from her lips with hiss and moan, and she almost squirms away in embarrassment but he holds her to him.

“My God Anne, the feel of you… You are all I want, you,” he murmurs, sounding drunk and giddy. He goes slow then, learning the shape of her hips and pulling her in closer so that she’s settled astride his thigh. 

His hand hesitantly moves up across her belly to skim at her covered breasts and she draws in a breath sharply. She whispers an affirmative, and he claims her lips again as she grinds down upon him, feeling his palm massage her breast through the fabric of her day dress.

His lips make their way to her ear, her neck, her clavicle, and then he’s slipping beneath the line of fabric across her chest. He’s cupping her behind, pressing her to him as he teases each nipple intermittently with fingertips and tongue. She finds herself vocalising in a way she didn’t know she could, shifting urgent against the hardness of his pelvis pressed against her belly, grinding down against the strong thigh beneath her groin.

She’s helpless to the tension building within her and then her vision goes white and she shudders against him uselessly. He keeps pressing against her, urgent and erratic in his movements until slowly he stills. He paints kisses back up her neck and extracts his fingers out of the satin of her brassiere, attempting to pull her dress back into place.

She feels like she’s out of her own body, looking at his red lips, mussed hair. His shirt is coming undone, rumpled and half pulled out of his trousers. Their picnic basket lies forgotten behind him, and she feels deeply thankful for the seclusion offered by the trees. He grins at her though, uncaring. His mouth finds hers again, and she sighs against him, all languid sensuality.

“I’m going to marry you one day,” he whispers to her, hands gripping the fabric at her waist. Her heart amps right back up to a staccato and she starts doing up his shirt buttons and smoothing his collar haphazardly, caught as if in a haze.

“Tell me you love me, Anne-girl,” he whispers urgently, stilling her fingers as she attempts to straighten his shirt and tuck it back into his trousers, “No dearest one, don’t touch me like this - I cannot think with your hands on my flesh. Please tell me you’ll be mine.” His eyes arrest her, full of fire and hope and desperation.

“Of course,” she whispers back, just as urgent, “It’s only you, Gilbert, only ever you. I love you. I love you, and I know that you’re mine.”

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Thomas Aquinas' "Summa Theologicae"  
> ...so I really struggle with paragraph breaks in prose writing apparently. In my head this is set around early 1930s, and the world/characters are a mesh of the original books and Anne with an E, with Gilbert being around 2 years Anne’s elder. That said, ideally this has been written in such a way that you can pick your favourite Anne and Gilbert and run with it however you like. Hope you enjoyed!!


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